The Picture Perfect Intrigue
by Spikey44
Summary: His eyes were shadowed and no hint of a smile touched his lips, "This is suicide." He scowled, "Bloody woman, you will be the death of me." Penelo was ready for Balthier's dramatics and his protests. She wasn't ready for him to die. Then again nor was he.
1. Prologue

**The Picture Perfect Intrigue**

_Disclaimer: I own nothing; all you recognise is the property of Square Enix. I'm just abusing these characters on the sly. _

_A/N: I said it would never happen and I lied. Here begins the continuation of my Penelo/Balthier storyline began in "The Picture Perfect Theft" and "The Picture Perfect Heist". If you have not read these stories you might want to as some of this story might not make sense otherwise. If you have read the previous stories, this one takes place four years after "Heist" finished. Needless to say all is not well in the world of Penelo and Balthier..._

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_Lo you and cry, for here comes Time's wing'd chariot; I am done, my race is run, and there shall ne'er be an encore for me._

Blood and sputum splattered over cracked and dust covered mosaic tile, before seeping, vibrant and obscene, into the cracks. The dying man whose blood now splashed primal colour onto a oceanic pastel palette, staggered and wavered, keeping his feet with sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. As metaphors went, he thought in a detached and vague sort of way, he rather thought this one a trifle obvious. Frankly it bordered on cliché. The man spat another gout of blood onto the floor making his generalised disgust for his circumstances quite apparent.

"Nabudis...it would have to be...bleeding Nabudis..."

Knees gave way and the man grunted as he hit the floor; stale dust, the detritus of forgotten destruction, rose up like a phantasmal cloud to envelope his senses. The world narrowed to an off-kilter swirl of blue, liquid green, white, and palest pink. Allegorical maidens, goddesses and abstractions one and all, peered at him from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling friezes. Their broken faces, cracked and desecrated from long abandonment, formed a jig-saw of half-realised enlightenment as the man swayed on his knees, nothing more than a wink and a prayer keeping him from collapsing face first onto the floor. Vision fading, eaten away in slow biting incremental shades of grey, the man felt sure that those blind eyed and broken faces etched into the walls and hidden by a veil of dust held the secrets and very meaning of life itself.

"Ruddy stupid place to keep a secret..." He mused dazedly, blood heavy on his tongue, thick and clotting. He choked as he swallowed and spat again, falling forward, torn palms smacking down hard on the broken tiles beneath him. The room span and the darkness clawing at the edge of his awareness surged just a little closer. The thunder in his ears was nothing more than his own heartbeat, over loud and dangerously laboured. The lightning behind his eyelids merely the clash and rumble of his dying brain pulped and battered inside his poor shattered skull.

He really 'ought be dead by now.

Gritted teeth formed a flood wall against the deluge of blood and thicker, far nastier things, which threatened to make of his death a rather unsightly mess. The man knew it wouldn't be long now, his luck had well and truly run out this time. It was a pity really. This whole debacle seemed such a stupid thing to die for in retrospect, but then again it was his opinion that a good reason to die did not in fact exist so he supposed it was all much of a muchness in the end.

"...Still a bleedin' waste...should have known better...Fran warned me..."

Losing the battle to stay mostly vertical the man fell heavily onto his side, groaning as broken bones and brutalised flesh made contact with the ground. Jagged pieces of mosaic tile jabbed at him, unerringly finding each and every curl lipped laceration and gaping hole in his skin. Summoning the last of his strength the man rolled onto his back, one arm flopping uselessly across his stomach where a lucky bullet had made mincemeat of his innards, created an ugly hole in his fine Rozzarian cotton shirt, and blasted an even bigger hole out of his back. The other arm the hand burned and fingers broken, fell outward and away from his body, palm open to the ceiling as if seeking benediction. A pair of almost garishly bright coral rings, gleaming complimentary pastel in this shrine of marine shaded prettiness, could barely be glimpsed upon two twisted and useless fingers, slicked as they were in blood and scorched ash. Alas but all beauty is fleeting. It occurred to the man, with some dark amusement, that his current dire state could in itself be an allegory for the futility of hume endeavour.

"Fly or crawl...we're all worm food in the end."

Above his head the man watched woozily as the spectacular mural splashed across the ceiling rippled like a mirage and the darkness that swallows all things moved in ever closer. Yet the man's eyes remained rooted to the image of a blonde haired nymph naked as a babe and perfectly rounded where she should be. The nymph was caught and frozen mid-step in a wild dance. She was caught within a thousand painted squares of marble, and each one itself a masterpiece. The man laughed.

"Typical...are you haunting me sweetheart?" Heavy lidded eyes squint to see through the fog of death lying thin as gauze above him. The blonde nymph had eyes as doleful as they appeared ever so slightly reproaching of him as he bled out onto ancient Nabradian mosaic alone save for his own delusions. Once more the man laughed as the lights of life began to wink out behind his eyelids. "Ah, but I think it should be I who haunts you, my bird. This is all your fault after all."

The nymph with the familiar face did not answer him, but in truth the soon-to-be dead man had not expected much of a discourse to start between them. Instead he sighed and once more choked on the well of blood filling his throat. He was all but drowning in the open air; the burnt reek of nethicite and ash clinging to his senses, the copper offal bile coating his tongue, and the skipping thunder of his heartbeat all beginning to fade as his body gave up the illusion of living. Death would be neither relief nor agony for this man; instead he would die with wry annoyance lurking in his caddish heart. He had never expected to know old age, after all, but really this was not the end he had envisioned.

Though perhaps, all things considered, this was the end he had earned most of all?

Eyes opening once again, the man could see only the faint outline of wavering light as the world collapsed into endless black void. An eldritch and watery kaleidoscope, colours too washed out to be beautiful and too shapeless to be arresting swirled before him as he tried to cling to this last meagre scrap of existence. He imagined rather than saw the blonde haired nymph splayed across the wall smile upon him in bitter valediction. Hope died as eternal peace washed through the man dying broken and alone so very far from any place he wished to be. The man closed his eyes again; he would not rant and rave uselessly against that which he could do nothing about. His audience may be lacking but he would still die as befit his part.

He was so tired...so very, very tired.

What a fool he was, what a bloody fool. Ah but his legion of vengeful ghosts will so enjoy making him suffer for this when he meets them all in hell, the man is sure of that much and the thought is less than salutary. The legend has been brought low; the man left exposed and bereft; the infamous sky pirate naught but carrion in the end...And all because of one pig-tailed blonde.

"Penelo," the man exhales the name upon his last breath, "you have killed me, sweetheart."


	2. Chapter 1

_The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, but fool are those who try to retrace that long and painful road. _

A cool and distant sun resided high in the sky on a clear spring day as the East Archadia Company commercial airship Vagnar began its final descent towards the Rabanastran aerodrome.

"Attention passengers; we will soon be arriving at our final destination: Rabanastre. Will all passengers please ensure they have all luggage and valuables with them before leaving the airship; on behalf of The East Archadia Company we thank you for flying with us today."

A young woman seated demurely in the first class passenger galley looked up from the book she held open in her lap at the sound of the announcement. Just briefly a look of consternation touched her features and something almost anxious flinched to life behind wide blue eyes. The young woman closed her book and clasped her fingers together in a complex knot of whitened digits. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath as around her the other passengers prepared for landing.

"Alright Penelo…you can do this." Convulsively her hand reached for, and fingers clenched around, the couerl bone ivory handles of her Bhujerban made leather travel bag. In the pit of her stomach Penelo could feel every moment of the airship's descent and it made her feel ill. _I'm not sure I can do this…_the traitorous little thought popped into her mind and for just the briefest of moments Penelo entertained the thought of leaving the Vagnar and immediately boarding another airship back to Bhujerba. It was a silly childish thought of course and one the twenty-five year old would never admit to aloud, but it proved rather persistent.

Life was a funny thing, not all that long ago Penelo would have laughed if someone had suggested she would view returning to her homeland with the same bone aching dread she equated to bloody battle. Yet truth was truth. Stepping out of the landing bay and onto the main concourse of the Rabanastran aerodrome lobby felt akin in magnitude to the time she had boarded the Bahamut. The same heart hammering weakness of the limbs afflicted her now, and the same nauseating dryness collected at the back of her throat. Quite abruptly her eyes prickled with tears. _I don't want to be here. _

"Penelo, hey, Pen!" Through the milling crowd of brightly clad locals and overdressed travellers a familiar figure oozed his way through the throng, running counter to the current of travel and not caring in the slightest.

"Vaan," Penelo wasn't aware that she had moved until her nose was pressed against an uncovered shoulder and the nostalgic scent of clean sweat, sunlight and faint spice had enveloped her as surely as her best friend's sturdy arms. Penelo squeezed Vaan hard around his narrow waist, trying to anchor herself to the here and now through physical contact. Maybe she really didn't want to be home, but she would never be anything but glad to see her best friend. "I missed you, Vaan." She told him finally forcing herself to let go of him so she could look into those clear, steady blue eyes; eyes that kept no secrets from her and never would.

"Missed you too," Vaan smiled releasing her so he could rub the back of his neck in such an achingly familiar gesture. Then he frowned, a pout transforming rounded open features into a mask of childlike petulance, "Pen! Have you grown taller?" Vaan looked her up and down critically and with any other man the slow drag of his eyes from her red suede ankle boots up her shapely calves to her Archadian style sheath dress in a deep blushing burgundy onward to rest upon her pretty face and expertly curled and coiffed golden hair, piled atop her head and crowned with a tiny red velvet hat perched at rakish angle, would have been desirous at best and positively lecherous at the worse. Vaan was different however and what caught his attention was not sweet roundness in all the right places or the quiet, limber strength evident even underneath rich fabric and frippery but instead an inch and a half of extra height between he and she.

Despite herself Penelo laughed, "No Vaan, you've just gotten shorter."

"Penelo!" Aggrieved to the point of mortal injury Vaan scowled, blushed and shuffled his feet before his down cast gaze focused on her footwear, "Ha, you're wearing heels. That's cheating!"

Penelo rolled her eyes and cuffed him on top of the head, "Vaan it's not a competition." She didn't quite remember when Vaan became morbidly conscious of his _vertically challenged_ status but regardless of when the neurosis had begun it had grown to be a persistently more pervasive obsession over recent months. Penelo sort of suspected this had something to do with Vaan's elevation to Captain of the Dalmascan Royal Guard about eighteen months ago but wasn't foolish enough to voice her suspicions out loud, at least not to Vaan anyway. Unfortunately the fact that even bare foot Penelo was about an inch taller than Vaan now only added salt to the festering wound in her best friend's ego.

"I still don't think it's fair," Vaan mumbled as Penelo threaded her arm through his and they walked together past the on-lookers loitering in the aerodrome main lobby. "You've been spending too much time with Archadians; their tallness is infecting you."

"Height isn't a disease Vaan," Penelo would have poked him but both hands were busy either holding onto his bicep or her travel bag, which in his usual sweetly oblivious manner, Vaan had failed to offer to carry for her. "And I haven't been to anywhere in Archadia for over nine months." She paused and expertly ignored the low susurrus of whispers accompanied by indiscrete pointing surging like a low tide around she and Vaan as they passed through the streets of Rabanastre. "We pretty much live in Bhujerba full time now. Bhujerbans aren't really tall either." She added, keeping her eyes dead ahead and fixed on an inner vista so she could ignore the eyes of strangers, once countrymen, following her with indecorous interest.

"Un-huh," Vaan was unperturbed by her attempts to inject some logic into his arguments, "It's Balthier's fault; him and Fran. I mean Balthier's always been tall and Fran's a head taller than him again. They've probably been putting something in your food. It's making you grow."

Penelo grinned, "Well in that case maybe I'll ask them to do the same for you – especially as you're the one _shrinking_."

"Penelo!" Vaan's yowl of mock outrage made her laugh out loud and also allowed her to ignore the whispers, increasing in number and volume that dogged the two old friends steps as they made their way through the commercial sector of the city headed for Migelo's Sundries.

"_It's her…Penelo the songstress. Wonder if she's here to do a show for us?"_

"_Doubt it, I mean look at her, she doesn't even look like a Dalmascan anymore. She's not interested in wasting time here. She's got Emperors to pander to now." _

"_She's so pretty; wish I was pretty like that."_

"…_She's with the Captain; must be something important. Do you think if I go over I'll get an autograph?" _

Unconsciously Penelo had begun to grit her teeth, fingers tightening around Vaan's arm until her nails dug into skin. This was the reason she hadn't wanted to come back. Somehow the whispers were always worse when hissed by voices she should know. Like the haunting refrain of a disparate melody Balthier's voice mocked her memory, _Can't have fame without the infamy, my bird. Smile, laugh, and never let the bastards see you care. _ Penelo's jaw was now aching and she was sure her expression was more akin to a snarl than the aloof, demure smile she was aiming for. Indifference was a skill that still eluded her no matter the company she kept these days, or how beautifully well certain pirates of her acquaintance could feign such. Most days Penelo was glad she had yet to become even a little jaded by life, sadly today was not one of those days.

Desperate for distraction Penelo focused not on the people of the city but the city itself. In all the years she had lived in Rabanastre she had never really considered the city of her birth with objective eyes. She had never catalogued the myriad of sensations which assailed any travel upon setting foot in the marketplace, but now more stranger than native it was all she could do not to be overwhelmed with the sights, sounds and scents of home. Spice and sand, a sensation that was at once scent and touch, abrasive and invigorating, was the most obvious sensation one could equate with Rabanastre, but there was also the dry heat of the sun combined with the localised burn of cooking fires, especially in the market. The mouth-watering scent of meat roasting on spits allowed for taste to join smell and create a rich tapestry of aromas both divine and foul. There was also sound. Rabanastre in the eight years since her liberation had taken up a new rhythm; no longer was the beating heart of the city defined by the heavy steel clang of Imperial boots stamping down the lost freedom of the Dalmascan populace. Now the city was full of music; sweet strains of a lyre and the hypnotic beat of hand drums tickled her ears from the open, shadowed doorway of the Sandsea tavern as they passed and made her heart skip and her feet twinkle in a sudden, tiny moment of dance. For Penelo however it was the sights and colours of Rabanastre which truly hit her. Was the sky really that blue anywhere in Ivalice save above the arches and domes of the cathedral? Was the palace really so gorgeously white like a dream in icing sugar, or was it merely the iridescence of the streets and the blazing azure sky that made the palace seem so perfect?

_I'm home, _Penelo thought and the emotion that went with the thought was complex and tinged with bittersweet sadness, _except I'm also not._

Once upon a time Penelo had assumed it was a given that she would live and eventually die in Rabanastre without ever travelling further afield than Nalbina at the most. After all once upon a time she had been just another orphan living in Low Town struggling to survive under the Imperial occupation; it hadn't been unreasonable to assume she would never leave Dalmasca. Of course as it happened the reasonable and the sensible did not seem to apply to Penelo, or at least they hadn't in many a year; no reasonable mind would conceive of the bizarre and extraordinary set of accidents and consequence that had catapulted her and Vaan into a battle against would-be gods and taken them far, far away from home. Penelo had returned to Dalmasca since then, obviously, but somehow, after having tasted what the rest of Ivalice had to offer – not to mention seen the wonders of a world floating _above _Ivalice – Penelo had found that Rabanastre just didn't have the same hold on her it once had. It was then that, painfully and inexplicably, she had come to realise that her old home just wasn't home anymore. Penelo, walking streets that were at once utterly familiar while at the same time strange and different to her, couldn't help but feel like a traitor, an interloper in her own city, and the feeling hurt.

"Vaan," when she spoke again it was in barely more than a whisper, "Migelo – how is he really?"

Vaan's step faltered and they both came to an awkward halt some fifteen feet from the sundries store at the end of the alley. The bright and inviting crystal lights standing sentry on each side of the door suddenly seemed dimmer and colder. Penelo stared at the door to the shop and tried desperately to breathe. Vaan's silence was killing her in agonising increments.

"Vaan?" She turned to him forcing herself to meet those clear eyes and refusing to acknowledge the guilt clawing up her spine.

"Migelo's going to be so pleased to see you, Pen." Her best friend smiled at her, but it was a tired smile one that threatened to fall like tears at any moment. Penelo closed her eyes briefly and summoned steel to support her spine. "I'm looking forward to seeing him too." She opened her eyes and managed her own smile, as waxy and breakable as the one adorning Vaan's face. As one the two friends then turned back to face the door. The fifteen yards to the store felt like a march to execution – or worse still, the slow crawl of a funerary procession. Gripping Vaan's arm Penelo told herself that this was not the worst thing she'd ever done, nor the most harrowing. She told herself she was not a coward, nor a traitor, and she should be ashamed of her own weakness. She owed Migelo and she loved him like family. This man had, in a very real way, saved her and Vaan from starvation and offered them a lifeline in a time of unending misery. She would do whatever she could and whatever Migelo needed for as long as he needed, and she would do so with a smile on her face.

Yet the gods be damned she wished, oh she wished so dearly, that she could offer that brave, wonderful bangaa something more than a smile and sweet word to send him off to his death.

* * *

_Some say the Couerl can ne'er change his stripes and others still that he can and will, but none do ask what becomes of the beast when beast he is no longer. _

Tap. Tap. Tap. Long fingers adorned in coral coloured rings rapped against the casement of a stained glass window as a pair of hooded eyes watched life go by beyond the coloured prism without seeing much of anything at all. Tap. Tap. Tappity-tap. At length the lean man standing by the window forced himself to some semblance of animation, pushing away from the casement and turning his back on the outside world.

"Yes that does seem to be a rather…delicate…dilemma you have on your hands," the man began polite but cool, "I fain to see what it has to do with me, however."

Without waiting for his guest to reply the man, whose favourite sobriquet had been for a number of years no less than Balthier, strode across the high glossed rose wood flooring of his lavish studio. His movements and demeanour tended to give the observer the impression of a couerl within a gilded cage. Dress him in fine velvet frock coat lined in rich sable and deck the cage with all the luxury of easy wealth as you may, but the couerl will always remain a couerl and the cage nothing but a cage.

"Ivalice is changing; you above all others must see this." His visitor reclining comfortably in a high wingback chair insisted, yet in tones so mild they seemed almost sympathetic, soothing the beast in his agitation. He watched as his host came to a restless halt by the mantle of a grand and ornately decorated fireplace in the Archadian style. "I understand your – reticence – but really you know that whether you bury your head in the sand or stride out like a behemoth on the prowl you are already involved." The speaker is impassioned but not aggressively so, in his hands he swirls a brandy glass, manicured fingers trailing over the rim.

Balthier snorted sourly in response to these words, eyes watching the pendulum swing of the chiming clock mounted to the wall. "Your powers of manipulation have improved." He admitted half mocking and half begrudgingly impressed. "You have also, evidently, found a way loose of your leash."

The visitor smiled faintly, "I find that it helps expedite matters if, on occasion, I travel without an entourage." The man tapped his fingers against the crystal glass and the musical lilt of the crystal rang clear and sweet through the room.

"Quite." Balthier drawled watching his esteemed guest with the keen and jaded eyes of a hawk. "And of course, Bhujerba is an old stomping ground for you, isn't it?" His lips twisted in the old mocking smirk, "quite nostalgic this whole affair, if I do say so."

The young man sighed. He knew that he walked a metaphorical tightrope. He also knew that his careful wordplay did not fool Balthier, but then again he had no desire to deceive. "Regardless of our positions and former association both good and bad Balthier," the younger man began allowing some of the earnestness of his youth to return to his words, "I am not here to coerce you. I need your help and I suspect that in this one matter at least we are in accord."

"Do you now?" Quiet as falling snow atop distant mountain peaks Balthier's words barely travelled and yet, like lead, the threat inherent therein fell heavy and undeniable.

"I would not be here otherwise." The younger admitted no less than honest. "I do not come here to salt old wounds, or start new conflict, or aught else that may nevertheless result from this conversation. I simply act thus because I must. It is necessity that brings me here and necessity alone."

Balthier smiled a smile laced in cynicism, "Ah, dear necessity; the preserve and last staple of the desperate politician." He shook his head bitterly amused. "You seem to have forgotten however that I am not a politician. You and I have rather different views on that which is necessary – and frankly - if I thought for a moment we were of a like mind I would be inclined to shoot myself right here and now." Balthier began to move again, prowling his domain and confident enough therein not to fret the obviousness of his irritation.

The thunk-thunk of the clock's heavy pendulum cutting the air was the only sound, the only movement, in the room for some moments; the two men watched each other, both taking the respite from their precarious dance around their own animosity and differences as a welcome chance to regroup. After another long moment wherein neither combatant in this odd battle of wills gave ground the younger man, the challenger and the supplicant in one, let his gaze wander over his surroundings. A half dozen easels covered in sacking lurked in odd nooks and corners and the heady almost medicinal scent of turpentine hung in the air like a cloak. Line drawings and rough sketches almost too faint to clearly make out lined the white washed walls of this attic studio and the young man near itched to rise from his chair and take a closer look.

"Accord whatever 'accord' to our past acquaintance as you like." Balthier told the other finally, his tone airy but without the sardonic amusement he once brought to such word games as these, "and regardless of any alleged sympathy I _might_ have for what you are saying the simple fact of the matter is this: I have no wish to get involved."

The seated man sighed and leaned forward to return his untouched brandy glass to the side table, nudging aside a discarded paintbrush. "Balthier do not be stubborn. This is not a matter of choice; turn me away if you wish, but sooner or later you will have to take a stance."

Balthier turned back to look upon his guest for the first time in a while. He cocked an ironic brow but his brown eyes were hard and his mouth pinched, "I believe that I have made my stance clear already. My stance is that I have none." He clucked his tongue once more assuming his more familiar flippant veneer, "Really now, a man in your situation should learn to listen to his elders and his betters."

Once more the younger man sighed, "Very well. I will not intrude upon your hospitality further. I have said my piece and appreciate that you have, at least, heard me out." The man rose from the chair, every movement beautifully perfect in its guileless simplicity. Once standing the young man took a moment to retrieve the rapier resting by the chair and replaced it in the sheath hanging from his belt. Dark hair, silky and midnight black fell across his brow and the young man flicked it out of his eyes absently before turning for the door. "I suspect that you will not, but should you wish to speak further you will be able to find me aboard my ship. I will remain in Bhujerban airspace for the next forty-eight hours."

Balthier moved to reclaim his favoured armchair, dropping bonelessly into the upholstery and taking up the glass of brandy left untouched by his guest. "Not staying with the Maquis?" He asked mildly. "Or taking a room at the Archadian Embassy?" Something close to a genuine smile touched the edges of his lips, "I wonder, could such covert actions by no less a personage than your august self be construed as a form of international espionage?"

The young man turned just at the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle, the low diffuse golden glow of the crystal-light wall sconces seemed to only enhance the vivid dark blue of his eyes as he smiled in turn. "I am not sure the statutes of international law cover quite such a situation as this," he admitted smoothly. "In any case Archadian law would struggle to apportion culpability and proper retribution in such a case." There was a pause of but a half-breath, "Perhaps I should institute a reform of the statutes?"

Balthier arched a brow, "Perhaps you should also suggest a similar course of action to our dear friend Ondore as well…your lordship. I'm sure the old bugger would be quite distressed to discover his parvama has been infiltrated by a foreign dignity, one whom arrives without invitation and leaves with such furtive haste, hm?"

"No," Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor replied quite calmly. "I don't think I will." He looked over his shoulder at Balthier. "I have learnt that it is always advisable to ensure one has a loophole to exploit after all. If I am to run off the leash, as you say, announcing my presence would be counterproductive, would it not?"

Balthier smiled thinly and brought the brandy glass to his lips, "Your brother Vayne would be proud of your reasoning, no doubt." He met the younger man's eyes as he downed the glass in one. In a flourish he saluted the departing emperor with the empty glass. "Pleasant flying your lordship; do forgive me if I express the hope that we shall not meet again for a bloody long while."

Larsa merely smiled, nodded his head in polite deference to a man who by rights should have been strung up from a gibbet in the centre of Tsenoble years ago and allowed his parting shot to sail cleanly through the room as the door to the studio closed behind him.

"Goodbye Balthier – please pass along my true regards to Penelo."


End file.
